Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900

by Shirane, Haruo, ed.

  Although the sun had already sunk in the west and the rain clouds were so dark they seemed about to burst, he doubted he could lose his way, having lived so long in the village, and so he pushed through the fields of summer. But the jointed bridge of old had fallen into the rapids, so that there could be no sound of a horse’s hoofs;31 he could not find the old paths because the farmland had been abandoned to grow wild, and the houses that used to stand there were gone. Scattered here and there, a few remaining houses appeared to be inhabited, but they bore no resemblance to those in earlier days. “Which is the house I lived in?” he wondered, standing in confusion, when about forty yards away, he saw, by the light of stars peeking through the clouds, a towering pine that had been split by lightning. “The tree that marks the eaves of my house!” he cried and joyfully moved forward. The house was unchanged and appeared to be occupied, for lamplight glimmered through a gap in the old door. “Does someone else live here now? Or is she still alive?” His heart pounding, he approached the entrance and cleared his throat. Someone inside heard immediately and asked, “Who is there?” He recognized his wife’s voice, though greatly aged. Terrified that he might be dreaming, he said, “I have come back. How strange that you should still be living here alone, unchanged, in this reed-choked moor!”32 Recognizing his voice, she quickly opened the door. Her skin was dark with grime, her eyes were sunken, and long strands of hair fell loose down her back. He could not believe she was the same person. Seeing her husband, she burst into wordless tears.

  Stunned, Katsushirō could say nothing for a time. Finally he spoke: “I would never have let the years and months slip by had I thought you were still living here like this. One day years ago, when I was in the capital, I heard of fighting in Kamakura—the shōgun’s deputy had been defeated and taken refuge in Shimōsa. The Uesugi were in eager pursuit, people said. The next day I took my leave from Sasabe and, at the beginning of the Eighth Month, left the capital. As I came along the Kiso road, I was surrounded by a large band of robbers, who took my clothing and all my money. I barely escaped with my life. Then the villagers said that travelers were being stopped at new barriers on the Tōkaidō and Tōsandō Highways. They also said that a general had gone down from the capital the day before, joined forces with the Uesugi, and set out for battle in Shimōsa. Our province had long since been razed by fire, and every inch trampled under horses’ hoofs, they said, and so I could only think that you had been reduced to ashes and dust or had sunk into the sea. Returning to the capital, I lived on the generosity of others for these seven years. Seized in recent days with constant longing, I returned, hoping at least to find your remains, but I never dreamed that you would still be living in this world. I wonder if you might not be the Cloud of Shaman Mountain or the Apparition in the Han Palace.”33 Thus he rambled on, tediously repeating himself. When she stopped crying, his wife said, “After I bid you farewell, the world took a dreadful turn, even before the arrival of the autumn I relied on, and the villagers abandoned their houses and set out to sea or hid in the mountains. Most of the few who remained had hearts of tigers or wolves and sought, I suppose, to take advantage of me now that I was alone. They tempted me with clever words, but even if I had been crushed like a piece of jade, I would not imitate the perfection of the tile,34 and so I endured many bitter experiences. The brilliance of the Milky Way heralded the autumn, but you did not return. I waited through the winter, I greeted the New Year, and still there was no word. Now I wanted to go to you in the capital, but I knew a woman could not hope to pass the sealed barrier gates where even men were turned away; and so with the pine at the eaves I waited vainly in this house, foxes and owls my companions, until today. I am happy now that my long resentment has been dispelled. No one else can know the resentment of one who dies of longing, waiting for another to come.”35 With this she began to sob again. “The night is short,” he said, comforting her, and they lay down together.

  He slept soundly, weary from his long journey and cooled through the night as the paper in the window sipped the pine breeze. When the sky brightened in the early morning, he felt chilly, though still in the world of dreams, and groped for the quilt that must have slipped off. A rustling sound wakened him. Feeling something cold dripping on his face, he opened his eyes, thinking that rain was seeping in: the roof had been torn off by the wind, and he could see the waning moon, lingering in the sky. The house had lost its shutters. Reeds and plumed grasses grew tall through gaps in the decaying floorboards, and the morning dew dripped from them, saturating his sleeves. The walls were draped with ivy and arrowroot; the garden was buried in creepers—even though fall had not come yet, the house was a wild autumn moor.36 And where, come to think of it, had his wife gone, who had been lying with him? She was nowhere in sight. Perhaps this was the doing of a fox? But the house, though extremely dilapidated, was certainly the one he used to live in. From the spacious inner rooms to the rice storehouse beyond, it still retained the form that he had favored. Dumbfounded, he felt as though he had lost his footing. Then he considered carefully: since the house had become the dwelling place of foxes and badgers, a wild moor, perhaps a spirit, had appeared before him in the form of his wife. Or had her ghost, longing for him, come back and communed with him? It was just as he had feared. He could not even weep. I alone am as I was before, he thought as he walked around.37 In the space that was her bedroom, someone had taken up the floor, piled soil into a mound, and protected the mound from rain and dew. The ghost last night had come from here—the thought frightened him and also made him long for her. In a receptacle for water offerings stood a stick with a sharpened end, and to this was attached a weathered piece of Nasuno paper, the writing faded and in places hard to make out, but certainly in his wife’s hand. Without inscribing a dharma name or date, she had, in the form of a waka, movingly stated her feelings at the end: Nevertheless, I thought, and so deceived I have lived on until today!38 Realizing now for the first time that his wife was dead, he cried out and collapsed. It added to his misery that he did not even know what year, what month and day, she had met her end. Someone must know, he thought, and so drying his tears, he stepped outside. The sun had climbed high in the sky. He went first to the nearest house and met the master, a man he had never seen before. On the contrary, the man asked him what province he had come from. Katsushirō addressed him respectfully: “I was the master of the house next door, but to make my living I spent seven years in the capital. When I came back last night, I found the house had fallen into ruins and no one was living there. Apparently my wife has left this world, for I found a burial mound, but there is no date, which makes my grief all the more intense. If you know, sir, please tell me.” The man said, “A sad story indeed. I came to live here only about one year ago and know nothing of the time when she was living there. It would seem that she lost her life long before that. All the people who used to live in this village fled when the fighting began; most of those who live here now moved in from somewhere else. There is one old man who seems to have lived here a long time. Occasionally he goes to that house and performs a service to comfort the spirit of the departed. This old man must know the date.” Katsushirō said, “And where does the old man live?” The man told him, “He owns a field thickly planted with hemp, about two hundred yards from here, toward the beach, and there he lives in a small hut.” Rejoicing, Katsushirō went to the house, where he found an old man of about seventy, terribly bent at the waist, seated in front of a hearth on a round, wicker cushion, sipping tea. Recognizing Katsushirō, the old man said, “Why have you come back so late, my boy?” Katsushirō saw that he was the old man called Uruma, who had lived in the village for a long time.

  Katsushirō congratulated the old man on his longevity, then related everything in detail, from going to the capital and remaining there against his true desires, to the strange events of the night before. He expressed his deep gratitude to the old man for making a burial mound and performing services there. He could not stop his tears.
The old man said, “After you went far away, soldiers began to brandish shields and halberds in the summer; the villagers ran off; the young were conscripted; and as a result the mulberry fields turned quickly into grasslands for foxes and rabbits. Only your virtuous wife, honoring your pledge to return in the fall, would not leave home. I, too, stayed inside and hid because my legs had grown weak and I found it hard to walk two hundred yards. I have seen many things in my years, but I was deeply moved by the courage of that young woman, even when the land had become the home of tree spirits and other ghastly monsters. Autumn passed, the New Year came, and on the tenth day of the Eighth Month of that year she departed. In my pity for her, I carried soil with my own hands, buried the coffin, and, using as a grave marker the brush marks she left at the end, performed a humble service with offerings of water; but I could not inscribe the date, not knowing how to write, and I had no way to seek a posthumous name, as the temple is far away. Five years have passed. Hearing your story now, I am sure that the ghost of your virtuous wife came and told you of her long-held resentment. Go there again and carefully perform a memorial service.” Leaning on his staff, he led the way. Together they prostrated themselves before the mound, raised their voices in lamentation, and passed the night invoking the Buddha’s name.

  Katsushirō and the old man Uruma return to the reed-choked house to pray for Miyagi’s soul. (From SNKBZ 78, Hanabusa sōshi, Nishiyama monogatari, Ugetsu monogatari, Harusame monogatari, by permission of Shōgakukan)

  Because they could not sleep, the old man told a story: “Long, long ago, even before my grandfather’s grandfather was born, there lived in this village a beautiful girl named Tegona of Mama.39 Since her family was poor, she wore a hempen robe with a blue collar; her hair was uncombed; and she wore no shoes. But with a face like the full moon and a smile like a lovely blossom, she surpassed the fine ladies in the capital, wrapped in their silk brocades woven with threads of gold. Men in the village, of course, and even officials from the capital and men in the next province, everyone came courting and longed for her. This caused great pain for Tegona, who sank deep in thought and, the better to requite the love of many men, threw herself into the waves of the inlet here. People in ancient times sang of her in their poems and passed down her story as an example of the sadness of the world. When I was a child my mother told the story charmingly, and I found it very moving; but how much sadder is the heart of this departed one than the young heart of Tegona of old!” He wept as he spoke, for the aged cannot control their tears. Katsushirō‘s grief needs no description. Hearing this tale, he expressed his feelings in the clumsy words of a rustic: Tegona of Mama, in the distant past—this much they must have longed for her, Tegona of Mama. It can be said that an inability to express even a fragment of one’s thoughts is more moving than the feelings of one skilled with words.

  This is a tale passed down by merchants who traveled often to that province and heard the story there.

  A Serpent’s Lust

  Once—what era was it?—there was a man named Oya no Takesuke, of Cape Miwa in the province of Kii.40 Enjoying the luck of the sea, he employed many fishermen, caught fish of every kind and size, and prospered with his family. He had two sons and a daughter. Tarō, the eldest, had an unaffected, honest nature and managed the family business well. The second child, the daughter, had been welcomed as a bride by a man of Yamato and gone to live with him.41 Then there was the third child, Toyoo. A gentle boy, he favored the courtly, refined ways of the capital and had no heart for making a living. Distressed by this, his father deliberated: If he left part of the family fortune to Toyoo, it would soon find its way into the hands of others. Or he could marry Toyoo into another family; but the bad news, which surely would come sooner or later, would be too painful. No, he would simply rear Toyoo as the boy wished, eventually to become a scholar or a monk, and let him be Tarō’s dependent for the rest of his life. Having reached this conclusion, he did not go out of his way to discipline his younger son.

  Toyoo traveled back and forth to study with Abe no Yumimaro, a priest at the Shingū Shrine. One day late in the Ninth Month, the sea was remarkably calm, with no trace of wind or wave, when suddenly clouds appeared from the southeast—the direction of the dragon and the snake—and a gentle rain began to fall. Borrowing an umbrella at his mentor’s house, Toyoo started toward home, but just as the Asuka Shrine came into view in the distance, the rain fell harder, and so he stopped at a fisherman’s hut that happened to be nearby. The old man of the house scrambled out to meet him: “Well, well, the master’s younger son. I am honored that you have come to such a shabby place. Here, please sit on this.” He brushed the filth off a round wicker cushion and presented it. “I shall stay for only a moment,” Toyoo said, “Anything will do. Please do not go to any trouble.” He settled down to rest. A lovely voice came from outside, saying, “Please be kind enough to let me rest under your eaves.” Curious, Toyoo turned to look, and saw a woman of about twenty, resplendently beautiful in face, figure, and coiffure, wearing a kimono printed in fine colors in the distant-mountain pattern, and accompanied by a lovely servant girl of fourteen or fifteen to whom she had entrusted a package of some kind. Drenched to the skin, she appeared to be at her wit’s end, but her face flushed with embarrassment when she saw Toyoo. His heart leaped at her elegance, and he thought: “If such a noble beauty lived in these parts, I would surely have heard of her before this. No doubt she is from the capital, here for a look at the sea on her return from a pilgrimage to the Three Shrines of Kumano.42 But how careless of her not to have a male attendant,” he thought. Moving back a little, he said, “Do come in. The rain will soon end.” The woman: “Just for a moment, then; please excuse me.” The hut was small, and when she sat directly in front of him, he saw that her beauty at close range was scarcely that of a person of this world. His heart soaring, he said to her, “You appear to be of noble family. Have you been on a pilgrimage to the Three Shrines? Or perhaps you have gone to the hot springs at Yunomine? What could there be for you to see on this desolate strand? Someone wrote of this place in ancient times: How distressing this sudden fall of rain—and there is no shelter at Sano Crossing of Cape Miwa.43 Truly, the verse expresses the mood of today. This is a shabby house, but my father looks out for the man here. Please relax and wait for the rain to clear. And where are you lodging on your travels? It would be impertinent for me to escort you there, but please take this umbrella when you go.” The woman said, “Your words cheer me, and I am most grateful. My clothing will surely dry in the warmth of your kindness. I do not come from the capital but have been living near here for many years. Thinking today would be fair, I made a pilgrimage to the Nachi Shrine, but frightened by the sudden rain, I came bursting into this house, not knowing that you had already taken shelter here. I do not have far to go; I shall start now, during this lull in the rain.” “Do take the umbrella, please,” Toyoo urged; “I will come for it sometime later. The rain shows no sign of letting up. Where is your home? I shall send someone for the umbrella.” She replied: “Ask at Shingū for the house of Agata no Manago. Soon the sun will set. I shall be on my way, then, shielded by your kindness.” With this, she took the umbrella and left. He watched her go, then borrowed a straw hat and raincoat from his host and returned home. Her dewlike figure lingered in his mind, and when at dawn he finally dozed off, he dreamed of going to Manago’s house, where he found an imposing gate and mansion, with shutters and blinds lowered and the lady residing gracefully inside. Manago came out to welcome him. “Unable to forget your kindness, I have longed for you to visit,” she said. “Please come inside.” Leading him in, she entertained him elaborately with wine and small dishes of food. Enraptured, he finally shared her pillow, but then day broke and his dream faded. “How I wish it had been true,” he thought. In his excitement, he forgot breakfast and left the house in high spirits.

  Arriving at Shingū, Toyoo asked for the house of Agata no Manago, but no one had heard of it. He continued his
inquiries wearily into the afternoon, when the servant girl approached him from the east. Overjoyed to see her, he said, “Where is your house? I have come for the umbrella.” The girl smiled and said, “You were good to come; please follow me.” She led the way and in no time said, “Here it is.” He saw a high gate and a large house. Everything, even the shutters and the lowered blinds, was exactly as he had seen in his dream. Marvelous, he thought as he went through the gate. Running ahead, the servant girl said, “The gentleman has come for his umbrella, and I have led him here.” Manago came out, saying, “Where is he? Show him this way.” Toyoo: “There is a Master Abe in Shingū with whom I have been studying for some years. I am on my way to see him and thought I would stop here for the umbrella. It was rude of me to call unexpectedly. Now that I know where you live, I shall come again.” Manago detained him: “Maroya, do not allow him to leave,” she said. The servant girl stood in his way, saying, “You forced us to take the umbrella, did you not? In return, we shall force you to stay.” Pushing him from behind, she guided him to a south-facing room. Woven mats had been placed on the wooden floor; the curtain stands, the decorated cabinet, and the illustrated draperies—all were fine antiques. This was not the home of any ordinary person. Manago entered and said, “For certain reasons this has become a house without a master, and so we cannot entertain you properly. Let me just offer you a cup of poor wine.” Maroya spread delicacies from the mountains and the seas on immaculate stands and trays, presented a flask and an unglazed cup, and poured for him. Toyoo thought he was dreaming again and must awaken. That everything was real made it all the more wonderful for him.